29 December 2008

lockhaven yellow

today i got slung around in one of these. nothing in front of me but a couple rudder pedals and a stick. to my right, horizontally hinged fuselage panels gave way to a sky bumbling past at 55 knots. insects fly faster. highest altitude? 3200 ft. number of attempted helical dives? 3. max number of rotations per dive? 2 3/4, slightly more than the number of G's pulled. for a brief second, I weighed close to 250 pounds, and it felt exhilarating.

what i love about flying is the plunge into an endless geographical expanse, one that levels mountains and amplifies the sky to dimensions our retinas fail to comprehend. limitless. scurrying among the clouds, swallowed by a cerulescent ceiling, and tasting, for a few moments, our earth's dulcet coating. a pterotic libido.

23 December 2008


There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons...
When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath

(emily dickinson)

There is, in the wane of the day, some persistent thought opposing the fade of light. Some color, neither blue nor black vying for a vagrant space to fill. The day drone ceases. The night winds yet are still. The strings to an old journal lie limp, as they were left in hand's neglect - a diminutive folio whose thinly pressed leaves carry the paltry scribble of trivialities past. Yet the pages heave with some polysyllabic language, and their breathing is not muffled by the resonating plunge into gelid anonymity. These pages, though pallid, seep with the blue stains of some life, and are bound by their cerulean tattoos to attest as witnesses to its pulse.

06 December 2008


(click for song)

the pallid blink of an eye is enough to partition the world into myriad kaleidoscopic phrases

a long sleep dissolves the drone of method and synthetic rhythm

some mornings, the sky wakes a hundredfold and ribbons the earth in volcanic tinged strata, like silken marsh water.

broad, stained skies and banded horizons wandering over the top our aboreal mantle amount enough height to convince me that this ceiling carries some naturally cogent impetus.

01 December 2008

the slidder dalles.

when will we be able to tell all we know freely, openly?
some winds never die. the rustle of skeletal grasses
quivering in their dormancy reveals that winter, too,
is a vivid season. yet some don't see it so. to glaze
over the top in a fretful haste is to misname
the world. and yourself. there are lives pressed
into the grain of patience that deep eyes and
inaudible breaths draw out. a sharp eye withers not.
and echoes resound in every crack of silence.

10 November 2008

la pilotte

ces couleurs de la terre et du ciel, ces traces de vent sur la mer, ces nuages dorés du crépuscule, il ne les admire point, mais les médite. Seul au milieu du vast tribunal qu'un ciel de tempête lui compose, le pilote dispute son courrier à trois divinités élémentaires, la montagne, la mer, et l'orage

a.s-e, tdh

05 November 2008


briskly venture, briskly roam...

28 October 2008

souvenez-vous: au-dessous des mers de nuages... c'est l'éternité

"Voici que, brusquement, ce monde calme, si uni, si simple, que l'on découvre quand on émerge des nuages, prenait pour moi une valeur inconnue. Cette douceur devenait un piège. J'imaginais cet immense piège blanc étalé, là, sous mes pieds. Au-dessous ne régnaient, comme on eût pu le croire, ni l'agitation des hommes, ni le tumulte, ni le vivant charroi des villes, mais un silence plus absolu encore, une paix plus définitive. Cette glu blanche devenait pour moi la frontière entre le réel et l'irréel, entre le connu et l'inconnaissable. Et je devinais déjà qu'un spectacle n'a point de sens, sinon à travers une culture, une civilisation, un métier. Les montagnards connaissaient aussi les mers de nuages. Ils n'y découvraient cependant pas ce rideau fabuleux."

-antoine de saint éxupery, Terre des hommes

26 October 2008

last week,

the sky did this.

a confused pockmark indicating the collision of restless air masses. it has taken me some days to catch up, but now i feel it. this. the sky, restless and pocked.

23 October 2008

There are some mornings when the sky

looks like a road.

*primary dapples in GIMP,
pieced together during holes in scholastic assiduity.
(a clumsy beginning with high aspirations)

16 October 2008

already said my farewells

(click above for song)

12 October 2008

someone's craving french caramel

in the years past, i have sat by this window, wishing it were better insulated. now i edge my chair as close to its dark pane as possible, wishing for some cool breath from the other side. it is hot. i do not like hot. i'm not sure i really like being cold, either. but it's the hot memories that burn through my tissue paper patience. it's the hot ones that send me into a frenzied search for the fast forward button. thus i crave the cold. why winter is eerily comforting. why i refused to drink hot tea on the warmest of windbitten irish afternoons. that is why norway, why iceland. similar to my spout in paris. i didn't know the city. i didn't know the swells or the stills, the grime or graffiti, the jerk and rattle on line 6, or 11. the brown one. (i could never remember the numbers) that's why, once i found myself there, i couldn't see the place as a student sees it. i couldn't see it anywhere because i still wasn't there. paris was an idea of else. like winter. like cold, iceland and norway. where i want to be now.
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